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Brendon

F rom the second my skates hit the ice, I know something is wrong.

Dread sits heavy in my stomach, and a weight pulls hard on my shoulders, but it isn’t until the Minnesota lineup is announced that I start to understand why. I didn’t look at the list of players this time. Hockey is a small community, and we know a lot of the players either personally or in passing.

The announcers call out “Chad Fenwick,” and nausea rolls through me. Fuck. I played with him when I was teenager, before I joined the Lumberjacks. A shiver runs through me, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with the ice under my feet. I would like to believe that he doesn’t recognize my face or name, but I’m not that lucky.

Memories try to invade my mind, making my hands tremble and my stomach roll, but I can’t let him fuck with my head. I’m not the same kid I was when we were on the same team.

The game starts, and I’m on the bench waiting for my shift, watching my old teammate across the ice. His eyes meet mine, and he sneers, leaning toward one of his teammates and says something to him. They laugh, both looking in my direction, and my stomach clenches.

“What’s up with you?” Paul nudges me with his shoulder, and I straighten up, looking back at the ice to watch the game. I can’t show him that I’m a victim.

“Nothing.”

Coach calls for a shift change, and we head out on the ice. Like a bat out of hell, Johnson, Albrooke, and I take off, racing for the puck. I slam into Fenwick, and he grins at me.

“Surprised I didn’t hear your dumb-ass sounds across the ice. You still squawk?”

Goddamn it.

A tingling starts in my chest as embarrassment and shame heat my blood.

My body moves across the ice, but my head isn’t in it. I don’t know what I’m doing, too lost in overthinking everything I’ve ever said. Minnesota gets a goal, and we head off the ice for a shift change. Have we been out here long enough to call a line change? I’m in a daze as I follow my teammates to the bench, barely recognizing that I handed my hockey stick to the assistant. My body moves on muscle memory alone at this point, not needing any direction from my brain. I feel dizzy and heavy, like I have a spotlight on me. Has Chad or any of his lackeys told anyone what happened that day? Does anyone else know about the abuse and the tears and humiliation?

“Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?” Paul leans over to look me in the face. “Are you sick or something. You look pale.” He pulls a glove off and touches my face.

“What’s the deal, Oiler? Why’s Johnson babying you?” Coach leans over my shoulder, his eyes roaming over my face.

“I’m fine.” I shrug them both off and reach for a water bottle just to give myself something to do.

Coach pats my helmet and walks away, but Paul isn’t giving up.

“You may be able to fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me,” he grits out quietly before putting his glove back on and sitting up.

Right now, his irritation is the least of my worries. Maybe this is the final straw and he’ll walk away from me.

For the rest of the game I’m not on the ice with Fenwick, so I can breathe. He’s probably been a bully his whole life. Has he hurt anyone else? I have to assume he has. Someone like that wouldn’t be a one and done.

That fucker is just trying to get in my head, and I’ve let him.

I crack my neck and try to get my head on straight.

Paul gets a shot on goal with an assist from me and lights up the lamp, Riggs somehow manages a breakaway in the third, and it isn’t until the end of the game that I notice a coach on the Minnesota bench staring at me.

Coach Craig Williams.

I’m frozen in place, eyes locked with the man who allowed me to be belittled for years. I can feel the blood draining from my face, the air in my lungs being sucked out by some invisible vacuum, and I could swear I was sixteen again. Weak. Vulnerable. Humiliated.

He can’t be here. Mom said he was coaching for Michigan. Did she tell me the wrong school? I purposefully didn’t look it up because I knew I would obsess over it and count down the days until I had to see him again. Not to mention, Minnesota’s coach is some dude named John. What the fuck is he doing here?

Someone pushes on my back, and I stumble, turning my head to see Jeremy with a big grin on his face. He wraps his arm around my shoulders in excitement. Our entire team is on the ice, celebrating our win while I stand here stuck in my past.

“Come on!” He pats my back and ushers me toward the line of our guys so we can shake hands with the opposing team. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want Fenwick to touch me even through the gloves.

As the handshakes start, and the mumbling of “Good game” surrounds us, Fenwick’s sneering face fills my vision.

“Squawk for me, birdy,” he says, holding on to my hand while the guys around him laugh.

My body trembles and saliva pools in my mouth a second before nausea rolls through me, and I lean over and puke on the ice. I brace my hands on my knees as everything I’ve had to eat or drink since the start of the game is splashed at my feet.

Fucking hell.

My face is sweaty but not from heat, and my hands are so shaky anyone who touches me will be able to feel it. I’m not okay. Laughter fills my ears, and I’m not sure if it’s in my head or outside of it.

“Oiler!” Coach hollers as he comes toward me. Paul and Jeremy flank me as we head toward the shoot to get off the ice and head to the locker room. “Go see medical. Did you hit your head? Food poisoning? What’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine, Coach.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me, but he lets me head down the hallway anyway.

I knew I would have to face them at some point, but I didn’t think it would be together. Not only did Williams not stop Chad from fucking with me, I’m pretty sure he encouraged it.

When we get to medical, Dr. Butler is there and waiting for me.

“Thank you, boys. I can take it from here.” He shoos Paul and Jeremy, leaving me alone with the man. He’s a good guy from what I can tell. Doesn’t take any shit, but he’s friendly and approachable.

“What brings you to my office, Mr. Oiler?” He gives me a quick glance over, probably checking for blood.

“I threw up on the ice.”

“Did you hit your head during the game?” He pushes on my neck, takes my helmet off and feels around in my sweaty hair, and flicks a pen light between my eyes.

“No.”

“Eat anything weird? How does your stomach feel now? Any other symptoms?” He motions for me to lay down and lifts my jersey when I do, pushing on my abdomen.

“No, I’m fine.” If by fine I mean on the edge of a nervous fucking breakdown because I’m a big baby and seeing my old bully has turned me back into a freak, then yeah. I’m fine.

“Hmm. Well, take it easy on your stomach tonight and check in with me in the morning.” He helps me sit up, and I head to the locker room to get changed.

The team is rowdy after the win, which I expected, but it’s overwhelming to my busy mind. I flinch when someone yells and head to my cubby to strip down. Paul sees me and comes over in just his compression shorts. It’s sexy as fuck to see him like this, despite the bruise forming on his arm from a hit he took in the second period, but my head is too busy to let my body respond.

He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I jerk out from under it without thinking about it. His hand hovers there in the air for a second before he drops it back to his side, confusion, hurt, and concern on his face. No one here knows what really happened on that team. I thought I was over it, that I had moved on, but apparently not.

“What did the doctor say?”

“That I’m fine,” I snap the same words I’ve said a dozen times tonight and pull my jersey off. I wrap that irritation around me like a shield to stop my hands from trembling. Frustration is so much easier than fear. I don’t have time to be sucked down into that headspace right now. It has to wait.

Someone pats my back, and I quickly shrug it off. Jeremy steps into view with confusion on his face, and I have to grit my teeth together so I don’t go off. Why can’t they all just fuck off and leave me alone? I just want to be left alone!

I pull on my suit without showering, which gets some raised eyebrows, but no one asks about it, thank fuck. I can’t shower in here. I need the privacy and safety of my own bathroom with a locking door. Once I’m dressed, I quickly exit and damn near run back to the dorms. My lungs burn and my legs protest the effort after the game, but I force my body to move anyway. I need to get to safety.

With every step I take, I feel like I’m being watched. As if people all around me are whispering and laughing about me. Make it stop. I just need it all to stop.

Someone tries to talk to me in the hallway, but I ignore them and burst into my dorm room like my ass is on fire, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it. I check under the beds, in the closets, and the bathroom to make sure I’m alone, then pull out the rum from under Paul’s bed and chug as much as I can stand. On my empty stomach, it doesn’t take long for the alcohol to hit me, but instead of the happy drunk I usually am, tears start falling down my face in chest-rattling sobs.

Freak. Weak. Birdy.

I manage to get mostly undressed and head into the bathroom with one sock and my underwear still on. I give zero fucks. The warm water has my eyes closing as it rinses the day and the game from my skin. Finally, I’m warm, no one is touching me, and I can’t hear anyone talking about me. Peace. I found peace.

* * *

After passing out drunk, my stomach isn’t happy with me this morning—neither is Paul, if I’m being honest—but I’m pushing through. Doc cleared me to play, and when my skates hit the ice for warmups, an anxiety I haven’t felt in a long time settles on my shoulders. I’m actually afraid of what will happen this game. Will I have to see Coach Williams? Will Fenwick get under my skin again and fuck up my head?

Paul and Jeremy are watching me like they would an animal at the zoo, like they don’t know what to do with me or if I’m dangerous. My skin is too tight, the pressure on my chest too heavy, and I can feel every pair of eyes on me. I know it’s stupid and not accurate logically, but that doesn’t mean anything to the panic.

Will Jeremy and Paul laugh at the stupid nicknames too? Will they start making fun of me for things I’ve worked so fucking hard to mask?

Shaking my head, I force myself into character. These guys expect me to act like a dumbass, and I’ll throw everything off if I don’t. I was already weird yesterday. I can’t risk being off today. But now I don’t know what’s too much or too loud or too weird. I’m second-guessing everything.

As we stand in the hallway waiting for the pregame to start, I slap sticks with Paul and Jeremy, then shove my stick between my legs and ride it like a horse. Why? No idea. But I hear the laughter of the crowd, and it makes me feel worse. I should be used to being laughed at. I’m always doing shit that makes the crowd laugh, but it doesn’t feel right today. Doing weird shit is what I’m known for, and it happens more and more when I’m stressed.

Paul slides up next to me, pulling my helmet to his and slaps the back of my head.

“We got this.”

After introductions, the game starts, and our assistant coach offers water and snacks to those of us on the bench. Willis eats a banana before he gets on the ice, Riggs eats a damn Snickers bar, and I’m offered a Payday.

“Fuck yeah! I love Paydays!” I grab the candy bar and rip it open with my teeth since my gloves are useless right now. I shove the salted peanut-covered caramel candy bar into my mouth and groan.

“Jesus, Oiler, you gonna deep throat that thing?” Matthews, one of our D men, laughs.

“You wish,” I toss back around a mouthful of candy. “You know you’re jealous of this nut in my mouth.” I send him a wink. Paul snorts to hide his laughter, and Matthews just shakes his head at me. They’re all used to me by now and don’t really take me seriously. If they hear the shit Chad says, will that change? Will I become the outcast again?

“Switch!” Coach bellows, and the first line comes off the ice while the second line rushes out.

I have one bite left and surprise Paul by shoving it into his mouth. His teeth graze my fingers, and my dick stirs. He lifts an eyebrow at me as he chews and swallows the salty-sweet treat but doesn’t say anything.

“Nuts are good for you. Protein.” With a big smile, I turn back to watch the game. It takes every bit of my self-control to not look at the bench on the other side of the ice. To not track the movement of the man who haunted me like a nightmare for years.

We’re finally called to the ice, and I race for the puck in our attack zone, Johnson and Albrooke right behind me. I get the puck and fling it to Johnson, only to be slammed into the boards. Hard. I swear I felt a rib pop, but I don’t let the pain stop me.

Swinging my gaze to the guy who hit me, I see Fenwick’s smiling face behind some guy I don’t know.

“Nice to meet you, birdy,” the player who slammed me says before taking off.

What the actual fuck?

Does their entire team know?

Shoving off the wall, I find the puck and speed toward it, but I’m once again hit, this time shoulder chucked by some big D man.

Fuck these guys.

“Oiler!” Carmichael yells at me as I pass him in the stands.

“Shut the fuck up!” I snap back at him but keep moving down the bench. I’m not in the mood for his shit.

“Is it just me or are they going after you more than normal?” Albrooke leans over and asks me.

“Kinda seems that way.” I shrug him off.

For the rest of the game, every chance they get, I’m slammed, tripped, and shoved. My ribs fucking ache, and every breath comes with a shot of electricity straight through me, but I don’t let it stop me. I won’t let them see me break.